


The Heroine's History

by TeamGwenee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, regency au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: As Mrs Lannister prepares to welcome guests into her home for the first time, she recalls the advice bestowed upon her by her 'devoted' Aunt Roelle.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 17
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the same universe as 'Makings of a Heroine'.

There are certain duties expected of a young woman; gently born, on arriving in a new neighbourhood. For a bride above all else. It is customary for her to pay calls, receive visits in turn, and present herself to be assessed and examined at her neighbours’ pleasure, for there was no figure of greater interest than that of a new bride. A young woman, embarking on a new life and a new role. The matrons of society could not be denied their right to bestow helpful advice upon the young wife’s ears. Linen, butchers, beekeeping. All of it must be shared.

For a good fortnight, the elusive Mrs Lannister had evaded her social duties, claiming illness and fatigue. 

Her husband and good-brother would have been happy to persist in the performance for as long as she pleased, but Mrs Lannister could not suppress the discomfort that her failure to perform her homage to the community caused her. It was a voice, soft as butter, whispering that to her many other deficiencies, incivility need not be added. It was the same voice, whispering away, that filled Brienne’s heart with dread at the mere thought of allowing herself to be paraded before the community. 

It was the voice of her Aunt Roelle. 

A letter from Evenfall Hall arrived the day Brienne accepted her first official guests. Arya Stark had been a most delightful surprise, and only a few years younger than Brienne herself, Brienne was pleased at the prospect of having the charming and half-wild young woman as a friend.

The Starks were among the most respectable families in the neighbourhood. Mrs Stark had been the first hostess for whom Brienne had failed in her duties as a new bride. It was only fitting that it be Starks who first be received into Maidenpool. 

That it was Arya’s family rendered the prospect of the acquaintance far less terrible.

The party at Winterfell had been very pleasant, with Mrs Stark taking all care to ensure her daughter’s new friend would be comfortable. Arya had assured Brienne her mother would take good care of her, and hearing that from the rebel of the family and thus the one who was most often on the receiving end of her mother’s ire, meant a great deal. And for truth, Mrs Stark had ensured there would be a large crowd, with many diverting entertainments, that would ensure Mrs Lannister need not be very much on display. 

After the success of the first party, Brienne rather looked forward to the prospect of spending more time with Arya and Mrs Lannister, and making a closer acquaintance with the elder Miss Stark, whom Brienne was certain would prove to be equally charming as her sister and mother. 

Even Jaime, bemused as he was to find his unconventional bride so very anxious to do at least this one thing right, and prove herself not a complete failure of womanhood, had agreed to be as civil and charming as nature would allow him. Though there be mirth and mockery, it would be entirely without malice. From a man of such barbed and bitter words, slights without spite and jests meant in jest were a greater compliment than the most civil of manners from better natured men. 

The letter from Brienne’s Aunt Roelle changed all that.

Once married to a clergyman, her widowed aunt had needed little coaxing to move into the comfortable Evenfall Hall and take over her niece’s education on the death of her younger sister. Mr Tarth had been awash with grief since the loss of his wife, and Aunt Roelle, sensing an opportunity to make herself indispensable to her wealthy connections, and positioned securely within Evenfall Hall, encouraged him in his mourning. 

With her unfortunate niece, Aunt Roelle also sensed an opportunity. As long as her niece needed handling, there could be no question of her going without her aunt. While young Brienne remained hopeless in all things, Roelle could thrive in her role as acting lady of the house. Her sister’s marriage to Mr Tarth had been an indubitably advantageous one, and married to a poor clergyman Roelle had known what it was to covet her sister’s position. Once it had been attained, she was unwilling to relinquish it. 

Brienne, then but six years old, had proved to be the perfect challenge her redoubtable aunt could undertake. She was a puzzle to her father. Much loved, but much misunderstood. Rough and tumble and in love with getting muddy and shrieking in the echoing halls, but in many ways softhearted and sensitive. To see her settled in her capable aunt’s hands had been a comfort to the broken widower, who was assured that even if his daughter had to do without a mother, and for a good while a father, she would always be well cared for.

And caring for Brienne became Aunt Roelle’s life work. She made sure to let Brienne know how deeply she was loved by her aunt, and how lucky she was to be so loved, when she herself was so very unfortunate. Crouching down beside Brienne one morning shortly after her arrival, as the little girl played with her dollhouse, Aunt Roelle picked up the lady doll and in her soft, precise voice made it clear to the lonely young girl that the care of her aunt was all that she could depend on, and that her father could not be expected to trouble himself too greatly over such an unnatural child, not when he had such a burden to carry after the loss of his wife. The wife that died bearing a short lived child, in an attempt to provide the son that Brienne had failed to be.

Without Aunt Roelle, Brienne would be alone and her beloved papa even unhappier than he already was. So Brienne was not going to do anything silly or foolish and say something that might mean her lovely Aunt Roelle would be sent away, would she?

Brienne never did. 

Brienne read the letter that came on the day of the Starks’ visit in the same honeyed voice that her Aunt had used that morning so very long ago.

Brienne had done what was right as a dutiful niece and wrote to her aunt twice weekly. A page, long enough to be respectful, though not so long as to require Brienne to delve into topics that would expose herself to her Aunt’s criticism. Brienne had swiftly learned her aunt would be displeased not to have something to criticise, so Brienne began making comments about her housekeeping that she held not so close to her heart, for her aunt to scrutinise to her pleasure. The linings of her curtains, the polish of the fruit. None in their household cared for such trivialities, and Brienne found she could bear her aunt’s objections with great fortification. She even managed to read out some extracts to her husband and good-brother, who felt that her aunt’s words merited no other response than laughter. Brienne did not care for the mockery, for she was certain that it was only her aunt’s consternation for her that caused her to write, as well as her aunt’s difficulty in adjusting to a life where Brienne was no longer her charge.

“She raised me since I was six,” Brienne told Jamie earnestly one evening as they retired for bed. “It would be hard for any woman to accept the child to whom she devoted her life has grown and left her care. We must be patient with her, I owe her so much.” 

This letter touched upon a subject more dear to Brienne, and thus would be hastily placed with the kindling before her husband had a chance to know of its delivery.

For all that Brienne had carefully avoided mentioning her failure to play hostess to her aunt, but a friendly note sent to the family cook in thanks for a recipe that Brienne intended to use on her first ‘at home’, had found its way to Aunt Roelle, and she had much to say on the subject.

_ My dearest and most beloved niece, _

_ I cannot contain my shock and dismay that you failed to pay your new neighbourhood its proper respect, and have shunned the company of the good people to whom you owe your compliments. What is more, I am disappointed. Ever so my adored sister left us, I have lived for nothing more than your education. Preparing you for the day you became a wife and took your place by husband’s side. That you have fallen so shamefully at this first challenge fills me with a sadness someone of  _ your _ understanding could not begin to comprehend. I had so hoped you would be a credit to your mother, let alone myself and your good father, whom you would be grateful to hear has been guarded from this terrible news. _

_ You must do more to honour your neighbours, and your husband, for it is most regretful you have not accompanied him to parties, or welcomed his guests into his home. I made it clear to you before you were wed that you must do all that is within your power (limited though that may be) to please your husband. A wife should live for nothing else, and you yourself have so many deficiencies to compensate for. _

_ On this subject, I will remind you again to never be displeasing with your husband. Do not contradict him, do not trouble him with idle cares, or let it be known when he has earned your displeasure. Listen to his guidance in all things, for he is your superior in wit and understanding. If you cannot be beautiful in form, you must endeavour to be beautiful in your nature. Obey him, honour him, adore him. For he has done you a great favour, one that I cannot be sure you deserve, and made a great many sacrifices when he chose you as a bride, even before his father saw fit to strike him from his will. A choice that, fond as you as I am, we are both aware that he can be blamed little for.  _

_ Harsh as these words might sound to your, dearest Brienne, I only say them out of affection. To guard you from exposing yourself to ridicule and disappointment in getting ideas above your station, and forgetting what you are and what you are owed. One such as you must be reasonable in her desires, for she has little chance in seeing them met.  _

_ Your concerned and doting aunt.  _

  
  


Brienne read the words thrice over, though she had little need to. How many times she had heard them in the days before her marriage alone? And indeed, the days of her youth, ever since her mother’s death? Aunt Roelle had never failed in making Brienne’s prospects for her future clear. 

The doubt they stirred within her heart shamed her, for her husband had been nothing but adoring since their marriage. And yet, she was not without uncertainties. How could such a man truly be faithful and loving to one such as her? 

That she even harboured such suspicions, in the face of her husband’s devotion, sickened her. Sickened by herself and her mean, base nature. This only doubled Brienne’s fears for her husband’s love.

Homely in face, ungainly in figure, limited in understanding, and small in character. 

It was truly a miracle that Jaime had come to care for her at all. 


	2. Chapter 2

Her niece was excited.

Brienne was usually so reserved in her nature, that to see her smile to herself as she near _skipped_ up the stairs to her bedroom was a most remarkable sight to behold. The image of her, humming mindlessly as she ascended the staircase to bed, filled her aunt with consternation. Ever since that wretched Mr Lannister had come to call, she had been getting entirely above herself.

Displays of joy and moroseness from her unworthy niece alike vexed Aunt Roelle. What reason did such a defective young woman have to be joyous? And yet what right did a girl born to wealth and raised with such love have to be unhappy? 

Nerves, discomfort and doubt was Brienne’s most pleasing state. The tight hunching of the shoulders, the grey pallor of her skin and the hot flush to her cheeks. The nervous flickering of the eyes. When in such a state, she would listen to fifty harsh words in the hopes of receiving two gentle and soothing. A trick Roelle had learned a week within her arrival at Evenfall Hall. 

Smiling on the steps, her back was straight and her face flushed with pleasure and exertion. Her fair hair was damp with sweat, matted down from her riding hat but for the flyaway stray locks. Brienne’s blue riding habit suited her best of her outfits. The severe structured lines, fitted jacket and trailing velvet skirts suited her well, the frothy lace collar all the frippery she needed. A good rider, homely as they are, could hardly fail to appear attractive and dashing in riding wear, fresh from a gallop or perched boldly on the saddle. And unfortunately designed as she was, this was no less true for Brienne. In one hand was her hat, with its silver buckle and lace veil, and in the other her best leather gloves.

  
  


Freshly arrived from the kitchen where she had been discussing that night’s menu with the cook, Roelle lurked half buried in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs. In dotted muslin and gauze fichu, peering up at her niece from beneath a lace cap overwrought with ribbons and bows with small black eyes. 

“Brienne,” she called sharply, “Do be swift about your toilette. Mr Lannister is joining us for dinner and it would not do to keep him waiting.”

“Yes Aunt,” Brienne replied, a smile tugging on her lips at the sound or Mr Lannister’s name.

“There is no need to simper like that, Miss Brienne,” Roelle said peevishly. “You can be sure it is no compliment to _you._ Mr Lannister would not call if Mr Tully were not staying with us. Just because your father saw fit to allow you to refuse Mr Hunt’s offer, does not mean you should getting any ideas about your desirability. Brynden Tully’s widowed niece, Mrs Lysa Arryn is coming down to dine with her uncle, and she will be seated next to Mr Lannister. It will do you well to be reminded that any attention shown to you by the gentleman is merely that of a man amusing himself with the only young lady present. When a prettier option is available, he will have little enough time for you. And perhaps that will put a dent in your damned arrogance.”

The smile on Brienne’s lips faltered, and her flush spread down her neck.

“To be sure Aunt,” Brienne said modestly, ducking her head, “I would not presume to think there is any great compliment meant by his attentions. I just find him very engaging. We were discussing fencing last night, and when he joined me on my ride this afternoon, he suggested we spar before his departure.”

“Fencing,” Aunt Roelle repeated softly. It was all the displeasure she would make known on the subject. 

Brienne’s fencing lessons were overseen by Mr Tarth himself, and although initially reluctant to indulge his daughter, they had become as dear to him as to the girl himself. He had begun teaching her two years after Mrs Tarth’s death, and through them the rift that had been between father and daughter began to heal. Through their lessons together, Selwyn Tarth knew his daughter best. If there was any element of her lessons that Brienne found less enjoyable, her father would know. Any harsh words against the lessons were certain to win Mr Tarth’s displeasure. Remove that single brick, and the entire house would fall. It had been Mr Tarth’s trust in Aunt Roelle’s good judgement and affection for his daughter that had allowed her to reign so entirely over Evenfall Hall.

Aunt Roelle had already felt her footing slip after the debacle with Hyle Hunt.

On the occasion of Brienne’s eighteenth birthday, Aunt Roelle began seriously considering her niece’s matrimonial future. She could not be a spinster, such a degradation would be a shadow on those who raised her. But Roelle cared little to see the domestic bliss she had so carefully cultivated be disturbed.

Mr Hyle Hunt was the ideal choice. From a respectable, but unremarkable family. Little in the way of money. Neither handsome nor homely, and his own comfort his highest priority. In Brienne, he saw the means to a fine home, good for hunting, and pleasurable evenings playing cards and discreetly flirting. Aunt Roelle had been comfortable that he would never oppose her, or do anything that would put himself in the way of displeasure. He would not exert himself fighting for his wife’s place as lady of the household, and never taking anything seriously himself, would not expect his wife to feel any harsh words her aunt might let slip too strongly. 

Then Brienne, in an act of intense presumption and ingratitude, refused his suit. And Mr Tarth, showing himself to be more a fool than Roelle had ever credited as, agreed with his daughter’s decision. Still sighing over his dead wife’s memory, he held that should his daughter ever wed, it would be for love. And for one, terrifying moment, father and daughter had joined forces against aunt. 

For a good six months Aunt Roelle nursed that grudge, consoling herself with the knowledge that if Brienne was so foolish to turn down the single respectable offer made to her, she would perish alone and unloved.

Irrelevant of Mr Jaime Lanniser’s persistent and puzzling attention for his host’s daughter.

**~**

If Mrs Sparrow could be commended for one thing, and it truly was _one_ thing, it was her table. If only her niece was permitted to enjoy its delights without fearing her aunt’s retribution.

Jaime Lannister narrowed his eyes slightly as he saw the Wench shift uncomfortably in her seat, placing her half full spoon down by her plat and stirring the food around, waiting until her aunt’s gimlet eyes shifted away from her to focus on whatever it was Lysa Tully was saying.

Brienne swiftly jerked the spoon to her mouth, eating what she could until her aunt’s gaze settled upon her once more. 

Jaime’s eyes flickered towards Mr Tarth, wondering if the gentleman could see his daughter’s discomfort. He seemed such a doting father, how could he not be when he allowed his child to partake in sports such as fencing? And yet for all his seeming intelligence and sense, Jaime’s good host was lacking in understanding in a single yet significant area.

Jaime knew the signs. His younger brother had suffered enough at the hands of both father and sister for Jaime to recognise a tormented soul. Whereas Tyrion smothered his fear of his family in wry humour as opposed to Brienne’s cold reserve, they both knew what it was to dine in polite society with the monsters under their childhood beds sat at the table.

The letter crinkled in Jaime’s waistcoat pocket. He had read the words three times over, considering how best to explain them to Mr Tarth. And Miss Tarth, naturally. His father’s judgement would be a difficult obstacle to overcome, and Jaime would have to make clear that it spoke only of his father’s ill nature, and that it was little loss to him to be without his father’s company. As for the money, even if Brienne did not stand in line for her own sufficient wealth, he thought well enough of his own skills, and prospective bride’s, to believe they would muddle along. 

It was almost a delight, to have found the single bride who could horrify his father sufficiently to cut from his life, yet with the wealth to fund such an estrangement. 

It would almost have been worth asking Brienne to marry him for that reason alone, even if he did not love her so well as he did. 

“Shall we go through?” Mrs Sparrow asked, rising decorously from her seat. The ladies followed suit, Jaime sneaking Brienne a quick, confidential smile as she passed, which she returned with a blush that spread down to her neck.

Both Aunt Roelle Miss Tarly alike found their prides required them to ignore the exchange.

An evening spent sipping tea with her aunt and Mrs Arryn was not Brienne’s preferred way to spend an evening. When it was just herself, her aunt and her father, he came in to join them a mere ten minutes after dinner. When he had guests such as Mr Lannister and Mr Tully, he took a while longer. When the ladies had company, Mr Tarth thought his daughter would prefer to have time alone with the ladies.

And yet, Brienne found she could bear the ordeal of entertaining Mrs Arryn well, for at some point this evening, Jaime would enter and she could spend an hour in his company. For that, Brienne could happily sit in a room with one hundred Lysa Arryns, and fifty Aunt Roelle’s. 

“Mrs Arryn, I must commend you on a most charming gown,” Aunt Roelle exclaimed, pouring the coffee. “The trimmings are delightful.”

Mrs Arryn smiled, smoothing down the fine muslin of her periwinkle blue gown. All along the borders were thick stripes of frothy lace, embroidered with seed pearls. A confection of feathers and pearls sat perched upon her teased and frizzled red curls, silver and sapphire earrings dangling from her shell-like ears. Next to her, Aunt Roelle appeared like a pretty little robin in green striped satin, and a red velvet bodice. A diminutive woman with soft brown hair and a small nose, everything about her was soft and sweet and charming, but her personality. 

“I had it made up in town,” Mrs Arryn declared. “Before my poor husband’s death, we spent many a season in our town, and now that mourning is over I look forward to spending more time in society. It would not do for me to be solitary, I need society.”  
  


“Society is brightened by your company,” Aunt Roelle informed the young widow. “A young lady should partake in all the pleasures society has to offer, just as a young lady should be an ornament to society in turn.” She sent her niece a not insignificant look. “Failure in either matter is unforgivable indeed.” 

“Uncle!” Mrs Arryn trilled as the door swung open, “Are Mr Tarth and Mr Lannister not joining us?”

Mr Tully smiled at Brienne. “I believe young Lannister had a word or two he wished to exchange with Mr Tarth. They will join us as soon as they are ready. Although I suspect Mr Tarth may dwell in his study a while longer.”

None could mistake his meaning. Mrs Arryn raised a sceptical eyebrow, while Mrs Sparrow fought to keep her composure. The flattery Mr Lannister had bestowed upon her niece was most unfortunate, and she loathed to think of all the good work she had put in raising Brienne to be modest and realistic being undone by such attention. 

At least, she consoled herself, that if the unhappy marriage did come to pass, Brienne would need her Aunt Roelle’s instruction more than ever. Once the first flush of love died down, and the reality of her new circumstances settled in her shy niece’s head, she would be lost and in desperate want for guidance. It was in those times that Brienne laid herself most bear to her aunt’s instructions. And certainly, she assured herself quickly, Mr Tarth would not give his consent without consulting _her._ How could he, when she had raised Brienne with such care these past years? Any decision for Brienne’s future could not possibly be made without her input.

Brienne herself could think of little, but the aching pain on her ribs as her heart began to thump violently beneath her muslin bodice, her palms slick with sweat beneath her oyster silk gloves. 

Aunt and niece waited pensively, eyes fixed on the door as they each waited for a summons. So certain was Mrs Sparrow that _she_ would be the first to be approached by Mr Tarth to discuss the matter of her niece’s future, that when the footmen arrived and announced that Miss Tarth was wanted, she ordered her niece to sit back down.

“Stay in your seat Brienne,” she said firmly, her lips pinched. “I am sure there is a misunderstanding. Your father has not yet reason to wish to speak to y _ou._ It is me he wishes to speak with.”

“I am sure that it was Miss Tarth the Master was asking for, Madam,” the footment replied, a smile pulling at his lips. “Although I may have misheard,” he conceded, his pretty eyes dancing in mirth.  
  


“It must be so, Satin,” Mrs Sparrow said sternly, sweeping across the drawing room. “You stay there Brienne, there is nothing your father needs to speak with you on, before he has spoken to me. We will summon you when you are wanted.”

And with that, she departed the drawing room.

Mr Tully made no mention of the curious little display, instead reaching out to shake Brienne’s hand with a confident, friendly grasp, and making known his certainties that Brienne was sure to be a very happy woman. He then tactfully suggested to his niece that she join him in a game of cards to allow Brienne time to gather her composure as she awaited the expected summons, which could only be very soon.

And sure enough, Mrs Sparrow quietly slipped into the room, a slight pink tinge to her cheeks, for she had been received with confusion and dismissed; by Mr Lannister at least, with impatience. It was Brienne they wanted. There was no need for Mrs Sparrow to be present. 

All of a daze and a tremble, Brienne walked into the warmth of her father’s study. Selwyn Tarth stood beaming by his desk, as Jaime lingered by the fireplace, for once looking anything other than perfectly composed. 

“Brienne-” he began, only to find himself crossing speech with Mr Tarth, who only chuckled and clasped his shoulder.

“My dear,” Mr Tarth began again, crossing the room to take Brienne’s hands into his own. “My child, my own child.” His voice wavered, as his deep blue eyes grew wet before Brienne’s own. “Mr Lannister has an offer to make you, one that he presents with all of my encouragement, but no expectations should you wish to refuse. this offer is not without complications. But if you choose to accept, it need not be any great trial to overcome.” He turned to Jaime. “My boy,” he said encouragingly, stepping back to make room for the gentleman.

Practically stumbling forward in his haste to be near her, Jaime moved into the place her father had vacated. He did not speak elegantly. There were no flowery flourishes or honeyed endearments. Instead he spoke plain and well, of his great fondness for her, his unequaled regard and respect for her person, and his earnest belief that if she consented to be his wife, then his happiness would be unrivalled, and in turn he would do all within his capabilities to ensure there was no happier bride in the kingdom.

Brienne had to sit down after all that.

“But what of the complications?” she whispered, for the happiness that tempted her was too great, too violent. If she was to surrender herself to it fully, only to discover her joy to be fool’s gold, she would surely perish. 

Jaime nodded, exchanging a glance with Selwyn. “My father doesn’t look well on the match,” he admitted. “He has high expectations as to my future bride. That I formed an attachment without his permission as crime enough. When he discovered I dared love a woman of spirit, independence and of unique skills, his ultimatum was clear. My inheritance and his good will, or you.”

“Jaime,” Brienne breathed, her eyes welling with tears. “Your father would strike you out?”

“I know, I know.” Jaime nodded his head, his own eyes growing moist with feeling. “If you would be my wife, not only would I be joined in happiness with the woman I adore, but if you consent to do this thing, my father will never speak to me again!” He beamed. “My joy would be complete.”

“Do not joke about such things Jaime,” Brienne pleaded. “This is a serious matter.”

“And I am entirely serious,” he said solemnly. “To be spared from my father would be a wedding present that would put any gift I gave you to shame. I had _thought_ of getting you sapphires, but that was before the news of my father’s estrangement arrived. I will clearly have to arrange something more extravagant.” The mirth faded from his eyes, and he took Brienne’s hand into his own. “Brienne, I _love_ you. I care not for my father, nor his money. I care only to spend my life with you.”

~

  
  


_“Brienne, I love you. I care not for my father, nor his money. I care only to spend my life with you.”_

Those words Brienne treasured like a jewel rarer than any in the sapphire parure that had been presented on her wedding. And regardless of Aunt Roelle’s warnings, her dire foreboding that Jaime’s love would fade and his ire at the loss of his inheritance would grow, those words had not yet been proven false. Not when his beloved brother had been struck from the inheritance also, for attending the wedding without their father’s permission. Not when Brienne cried out of engagement after engagement. Not when she tripped over her own skirts on the day of the wedding, or had the presumption to beat him in horse races or overcome him in a spar. Mistake after mistake, all the failures her aunt had warned against, had not yet caused Jaime’s regard to wane, and never did he demand of her the requirements that Aunt Roelle had assured Brienne was crucial for a wife. 

Brienne looked at herself in the mirror, brushing off a piece of fluff from her simple grey morning dress, striped with bands of red silk at the hem, neck and wrists. She was certainly no beauty, but she was tidy and respectable and the Starks would ask nothing more of her. They would be arriving soon, and what was more, Jaime was waiting for her.

She turned from her vanity and made for the door, tucking the letter into her sleeve to show to Jaime and Tyrion later, for such a letter deserved nothing more than to be laughed at. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So not quite the comeuppance Roelle deserves, not yet anyway. I have one more story for this series, which I will start posting tomorrow. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed, and I hope you enjoyed and will be reading the next instalment, The Heroine Hosts!


End file.
